Work Text:
The storm didn't just knock, it battered at the floor to ceiling glass of Luka’s high-rise apartment, howling like a lost animal against the Seoul wind.
Luka sat in the quiet dark of his living room, a mug of chamomile tea growing cold between his fragile palms. He was twenty-five, an actor whose frail frame had been a punchline on internet forum. The glass doll, they called him. Luka, the porcelain prince. They didn’t know about the hollows beneath his ribs, the way his breath hitched after a single take, or how the damp weather made his joints ache with a bone deep chill.
A soft, hesitant rap sounded at his door.
Luka didn’t need to look through the peephole. He knew the cadence. It only happened when the sky opened up and the world turned gray.
He unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the heavy door open. Standing in the dim corridor, soaked to the skin, was Ivan.
Ivan was twenty-five too, though sometimes it felt like he lived a century ahead of everyone else. On set, Ivan was all sharp elbows, teasing grins, and a loud, brazen affection for Till—their oldest colleague, the twenty-eight-year-old rock of the group whom Ivan had idolized since their early theatre days. But the man standing on Luka’s threshold now was a stranger wrapped in Ivan’s skin.
There was no cheeky smirk. No bright, manic energy. His posture was straight, his gaze devastatingly collective and heavy with a quiet, protective weariness.
"You're freezing," Luka murmured, his voice naturally soft as he stepped aside.
"The rain," Ivan said simply, his voice a low, gravelly hum that sent an involuntary shiver down Luka’s spine. "It’s loud tonight."
It happened like clockwork. Ivan would arrive drenched, seek the warmth of Luka’s apartment, and vanish before dawn. And when they met on set or at company dinners later, Ivan would act entirely normal bubbly, bright, utterly oblivious to the hours he’d spent tangled in Luka’s sheets, holding him as if Luka were the only fragile thing in the universe worth keeping safe.
For the first few weeks after the Alien Stage wrap party where a drunken Luka had broken down and Ivan had carried him home Luka had thought it was just a strange, intimate secret born of alcohol and loneliness. Ivan would hold him with a fierce, possessive tenderness, whispering things in the dark that the daytime Ivan would never dare say.
But tonight, watching the other version of the man he loved the man who secretly harbored a desperate, unrequited crush on Till move with such mature grace through his kitchen, something clicked.
Luka slipped away to his study, pulling up his laptop. He typed rapidly into search engines, cross referencing symptoms, memory blanks, and sudden shifts in demeanor.
Dissociative Identity Disorder.
The articles swam before his eyes. Trauma-induced, often stemming from a neglected or painful childhood and Ivan was adopted, carrying scars he never talked about.
Luka closed the laptop, his heart tightening in his chest. A cold wave of dread washed over him, far colder than the rain outside. If this wasn't his Ivan if this quiet, protective soul was just a fragment waiting to shatter then how long did they have? How could Luka anchor himself to a ghost who would inevitably vanish when the weather cleared?
Yet, when Ivan returned from the kitchen smelling of warm soup and burnt toast, pulling Luka into his arms, Luka gave in. For the next two days of their shared days off, Luka didn't speak of the diagnosis. They watched old films, tangled their limbs in a desperate, feverish heat, and tried to pretend that time wasn't ticking down.
When Luka woke up the next morning, the bed was terrifyingly cold.
As usual, it was like a dream.
___________
Ivan woke up with his mind feeling like a wiped slate.
He sat up on his own sofa, rubbing his temples. A dull ache lingered behind his eyes, the residual hangover of a lost block of time. Again, he thought, exhaling a ragged breath. His memories had been fracturing a lot lately. What was his other self doing when he went missing? Who was he leaving behind?
Today, however, he didn't have time to dwell on it. It was a major commercial photoshoot day, and he was paired with his ultimate idol—Till.
At twenty-eight, Till was effortlessly cool, carrying the weary charm of someone who had survived the industry longer than any of them. Over the past year, Ivan had worked his way into Till’s inner circle. They drank together in cramped studio apartments, sharing cheap beer and cigarette smoke until the early hours. Lately, Ivan had been dropping heavy, unmistakable hints. He liked Till. More than like.
On set, the atmosphere was electric. Till’s rough, rugged presence contrasted sharply with Ivan’s sleek styling. Between takes, Till tossed an arm around Ivan’s shoulders, laughing at a stupid joke.
"Hey," Till murmured as the crew packed up the lights. "You’re free tonight, right? My place. I’ve got some whiskey left."
Ivan’s heart hammered against his ribs—not with the quiet, devastating ache he sometimes felt for reasons he couldn't explain, but with bright, burning excitement. "I’d love to, hyung."
That night blurred into a haze of golden light and tangled limbs. Till was warm, rough-handed, and surprisingly gentle once they crossed the line from friends to something infinitely more complicated. When Ivan woke up in Till’s bed the next morning, tangled in the older man’s tattooed arms, a giddy sense of triumph filled him. He was dating Till. It was real.
The next afternoon, walking into the agency building with a spring in his step, the first person Ivan saw in the lobby was Luka.
Luka looked pale, paler than usual, wrapped in a thick wool coat despite the indoor heating, his breath coming in shallow, labored gasps.
"Luka!" Ivan beamed, unable to contain his joy. He practically bounced over, his eyes bright. "Guess what? Me and Till hyung... we’re finally dating."
Luka froze. A sickening, hollow sensation dropped into his stomach, but he forced the corners of his lips up. He offered a fragile, paper-thin smile. "That’s... congratulations, Ivan. I’m happy for you."
"Thanks!" Ivan grinned, oblivious to the way Luka’s hand trembled as he clutched a thick manila folder against his chest. "You look a little under the weather, though. Take care of yourself!"
Ivan jogged off toward the elevator, completely unaware that those would be the last words he’d ever speak to Luka as his "usual" self.
Because Luka wasn't just sick. That morning, during a routine check-up, his doctor had given him the final verdict: stage-four lung cancer, aggressively compounding his lifelong heart failure. There was no treatment left that could save him. There was only palliative care, a countdown to zero. And Luka, refusing to let anyone watch him wither into a ghost, decided to disappear.
He packed a single bag, retired from the industry effective immediately, and checked into a private hospice room under a pseudonym.
___________
Weeks bled into one another. Ivan’s relationship with Till was solid, steady, and warm. Till cooked for him, kissed the back of his neck while he strummed his guitar, and gave him the domestic stability Ivan had craved his whole life.
Yet, whenever someone in the breakroom mentioned Luka’s sudden, abrupt retirement, a sharp, unnameable pain stabbed at Ivan’s chest. A phantom ache for a memory he wasn't supposed to have.
Then came the rain.
Ivan woke up in his own bed one rainy Tuesday, the familiar fog rolling over his consciousness. His phone buzzed on the nightstand.
It was a text from Hyunwoo or rather, he didn't know when he save Hyunwoo number in his phone.
The message contained a hospital address, a room number, and a single sentence: Go there. You’ll find what you’ve been searching for.
Ivan stared at the screen, utterly perplexed. Since when did Hyunwoo have his number? More importantly, why did his chest feel like it was caving in?
Compelled by a force he couldn't control, Ivan drove through the torrential downpour. He parked in the subterranean garage of the private hospital, took the elevator to the palliative wing, and pushed open the door to Room 404.
The room was dim, illuminated only by the gray light of the rain-streaked window.
Sleeping on the narrow medical bed was Luka.
Ivan froze in the doorway, the breath knocked entirely out of his lungs. Luka looked terrifyingly small. His skin was translucent, his cheeks hollowed out, his frail body swallowed by the white hospital linens.
Suddenly, a dam broke in the back of Ivan’s mind.
A flood of memories crashed over him memories of rainy nights, of holding a fragile, trembling body close, of whispering fierce, desperate devotions into the dark. He remembered the smell of chamomile tea. He remembered loving Luka with a terrifying, consuming passion that the "daytime" Ivan had never known.
It wasn't a dream.
The other self his protector, his hidden core hadn't just been visiting. He had been living, loving, and grieving for Luka. And now that Luka was gone from the world, the alternate Ivan had been desperately searching for him through the haze of a shared consciousness.
On the bed, Luka stirred. His eyelids fluttered open, dark eyes unfocused and heavy with exhaustion.
"Hyunwoo...?" Luka whispered, his voice a dry rasp.
He turned his head slowly toward the doorway.
Luka froze.
The man standing there with a fierce, protective intensity in his eyes and a faint, unmistakable red tinge coloring the corners of his gaze wasn't the daytime Ivan. It was him.
Luka’s eyes widened, a sudden rush of tears spilling over his lashes. He struggled blindly against the sheets, trying to sit up, his breathing hitching painfully.
Ivan dropped his coat, rushing to the bedside. He slid his strong, steady arms around Luka’s back, hoisting him up with infinite gentleness, propping him against the pillows.
Luka stared up at him, his chest heaving, his voice trembling violently. "You're... you're not the Ivan I know. Why... why are you here?"
Ivan stood frozen, his hands still burning where they touched Luka’s skin. "How long..." his voice cracked, thick with agony. "How long have you known about him?"
"Since the beginning," Luka breathed out, a wet, bitter chuckle slipping past his lips. "The real Ivan likes someone else. He smells like sunshine and Till’s cheap cologne. But you... you only came when it rained. Your eyes always had that red tinge. You were searching for a warmth I couldn't keep giving you."
Ivan felt like he was suffocating. He couldn't form words, couldn't breathe, couldn't bear the weight of the devotion crashing inside his skull.
Without a word, Ivan pulled his hands away as if burned. He backed away from the bed, his chest heaving, sheer panic overriding his system. He turned, bolted out of the room, and ran down the sterile hospital corridors, out into the blinding rain.
___________
When Ivan crashed through the door of his and Till’s apartment, he was sobbing.
He fell to his knees in the entryway, gasping for air, clutching his head as if he could physically rip the alternate memories out of his brain.
Till rushed out from the kitchen, a wooden spoon still in his hand, his eyes wide with shock. He had never seen Ivan like this not the cool, collected actor, not the playful boyfriend. Ivan was completely unraveled, weeping openly, his body wracked with violent tremors.
"Ivan! Hey, what the hell happened? Talk to me!" Till dropped to the floor, grabbing Ivan’s shoulders, trying to steady him.
"I’m sorry," Ivan choked out, his voice shattering into a wail. "I’m so sorry, hyung. I’m so sorry..."
"For what? What are you talking about?"
"I cheated on you," Ivan sobbed, the confession tearing through his throat like glass. "I didn't know god, I didn't know but my other self... the part of me that hides... he loves someone else. He’s been going to him, holding him, sleeping with him behind my back. I’m a monster, Till. I’m so sorry..."
Till stopped. His hands, gripping Ivan’s shaking shoulders, slowly relaxed.
He didn't yell. He didn't push Ivan away. Instead, Till pulled the younger man against his chest, wrapping his heavy, warm arms around Ivan’s frame. He pressed his chin into Ivan’s damp hair, holding him tight against the tidal wave of his grief.
"Shh. I know," Till murmured, his own voice thick, carrying the heavy weight of a secret he had pieced together long ago from the strange, distant looks in Ivan’s eyes. "I know, Ivan. Just let it out. I’ve got you."
They stayed like that on the cold hardwood floor for hours, until Ivan’s crying exhausted itself into ragged, unconscious hiccups, and he passed out entirely in Till’s arms.
___________
When morning came, the rain had stopped, but a heavy, oppressive mist hung over Seoul.
Till woke up early, gently sliding out from under Ivan’s sleeping form on the living room rug. He knew immediately that the man waking up wasn't his Ivan.
The air in the room had shifted. The posture of the man on the floor was straight, collective, and quiet. There was an aura of profound, heartbreaking maturity. This was the Ivan who knew how to cook, the one who carried the weight of a lifetime of trauma and a love that defied the laws of his own mind.
Ivan sat up, rubbing his face. He caught Till’s gaze. There was no guilt in Ivan’s eyes only a quiet, devastating understanding.
"Can I go to him?" the alternate Ivan asked, his voice low and steady. "Just for a little while. While I’m on the surface."
Till looked at him for a long, agonizing moment. He thought of the tears from the night before, of his own heartbreak, and of the fragile, dying boy in the hospital.
Slowly, Till nodded. "Go," he whispered. "He needs you."
Ivan didn't waste a single second.
When he pushed open the door of Room 404, the hospital room was a scene of controlled chaos. Nurses and doctors were rushing around the bed. A low, agonizing groan echoed from Luka’s throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated agony.
"Wait outside, please!" a nurse barked, trying to block Ivan’s path.
Ivan stepped back into the hallway, his hands clasped together, his lips moving in a silent, desperate prayer. Just let me see him. Please, just let me see him one last time.
After what felt like an eternity, the medical staff filed out of the room, looking exhausted and grim. The doctor gave Ivan a solemn nod, stepping aside to let him pass.
Ivan stepped inside.
The room smelled of antiseptic and failing life. Luka was lying completely still, staring blankly out the window at the gray sky.
"Luka," Ivan whispered.
Luka slowly turned his head. His eyes locked onto Ivan, and the bitter, exhausted tension in his face melted away into something heartbreakingly soft.
Ivan crossed the room and sank into the chair beside the bed, carefully taking Luka’s cold, fragile hand in his.
They talked about everything and nothing. They spoke of the rain, of the quiet nights in the high-rise, of the tea that had grown cold, and of the cruel joke of the minds and bodies they had been given. Luka’s voice was barely a breath, but every word wrapped around Ivan’s heart like a tourniquet.
Then, Luka stopped. His dark eyes clouded with a profound, terrifying weariness.
"I don't have much time left, Ivan," Luka whispered, a faint, melancholic smile touching his lips. "I’m so tired. So tired of fighting to breathe."
Ivan’s throat tightened, tears spilling silently down his cheeks. He couldn't speak.
Luka squeezed Ivan’s hand with the last fraction of his strength. "If I die... will your other self disappear, too? Will the part of you that loves me fade away?" Luka’s eyes searched Ivan’s face, desperate for an anchor. "So we can... so we can finally be together somewhere else? In heaven?"
Ivan choked back a sob, leaning forward to press his forehead against the back of Luka’s cold hand. "Yes," Ivan choked out, his voice breaking entirely. "If you go... I’ll go with you. I won't let you be alone."
Luka let out a long, shuddering sigh. The tension finally left his shoulders. His eyelids fluttered down, heavy and slow.
"Good," Luka murmured, his voice fading into the quiet hum of the heart monitor. "I’m... ready to sleep now."
His hand went limp in Ivan’s grip.
The monitor beside the bed emitted a single, unbroken, flat tone.
Sitting in the quiet gray light of the hospital room, holding the hand of the only person who had ever truly known him, the other Ivan closed his eyes, let out a final, shuddering breath, and smiled as the darkness finally claimed them both.